Take the Sands and Feel Them Slip
by Ramzes
Summary: You can take the sand between your hands but sooner or later, you'll feel it slip. The Young Dragon learned this lesson during his failed conquest of Dorne. Slightly AU.


**WARNING: This is slightly AU, based on characters I created for other stories before the Princess and the Queen and The Rogue Prince came out. The most significant change is that Rhaenyra's first husband was a Strong, as GRRM's initial intent was, and their sons were men at the time of their deaths, albeit very young ones.**

**Take the Sands and Feel them Slip**

_Daeron_

The long line of men was moving down the barely visible track and the noise the clank of their weapons produced was high enough to warn the usual four-legged passengers to stay away well before the sea of hears appeared among the underwood. Bleating, they ran panicked a good distance and from the safety of the screes that the humans had no way to reach looked back from the intruders. Their blind panic would have made men look around and detect the interlopers but there were no men here, in the highest part of the Red Mountains and the handful the newcomers had encountered, they had killed. But the people of the mountain knew better than forcing their way into its highest brow where days were cool but the nights icy beyond belief.

Looked like Dornish goatherds were smarter than the Targaryen king, men muttered among themselves. That was their fourth day into the mountain and they really felt that they could not brave another four. Their faces were covered in blisters from a wind that was so cold that they had already lost their sense of cold and felt that they were being burned; they could barely walk on the corns covering their feet and in these rocks, their footwear was mostly a vanishing memory. They carried victuals with them but no one had thought of bringing water – and this high in the mountain, it had been hours since they had last seen a muddy puddle that could, with some good will, pass for a stream.

This cursed land would kill them before its men had the chance.

The line walked and cursed softly – and not so softly – their King's folly. Why did he want Dorne so much? What would anyone win from this? The realm would be saddled with this barren land and would need to support it, for the Seven could see that there was no way that Dorne could support itself. How the cursed land had sustained its inhabitants for thousands of years was a mystery. They would all find their deaths here for no better reason that Daeron Targaryen wanted to turn add Dorne to the jewels of his crown. What he would do then, no one knew. Many suspected that Daeron himself had not thought this far. It would not surprise anyone – he had recently celebrated his fourteenth nameday. Pity that even the Hand of the King had been unable to rein him in.

They muttered so but they marched on – if their moving foot before a heavy foot and sometimes jumping much like the goats they had chased away could be called marching.

"How much do we have to go yet?"

The master squirmed and tried to avoid the unmoving stare of those purple eyes. Daeron Targaryen was young, impatient as youths were wont to, tall for his age and very handsome. Many would look at him and see only his smooth face and boyish confidence but Maester Jarvas had served at court for many years; behind Daeron's youthful charm, he could see his father's determination and his uncle's sharp wit. He shivered with superstitious fear: the gods had given this boy so much. They had only omitted to give him two things. Only two but very important: the ability to restrain himself and the ability to think of the long-term consequences of his actions. Now, Daeron was looking at him as if he had promised him a quick pass, instead of giving him warnings on top of warnings.

"I am not sure," he said. "There aren't any maps for this part of…"

"I know, I know," Daeron interrupted him impatiently. "I mean… can't you look at the undergrowth and make calculations or… something?"

All of a sudden, Master Jarvas felt very old and worn out. All those years, all those efforts, and it still looked that he hadn't taught the boy a thing.

_Can't you bring a star down for me?_

He had explained over and over that it was impossible but the little prince had wanted it still. Finally, it had dawned upon him that the Maester was right, that stars couldn't be conquered. But it had taken weeks.

They didn't have weeks now. They didn't even have days. There was no way that they could make it back alive. Their only way was to keep marching.

"I do believe that we're almost to the top," he finally said, very reluctantly. "At least, I am sure that we're more than half-way through."

Daeron nodded, satisfied, taking the old man's words as a promise that they would be there any minute now. Soon, he'd be on the top of the Red Mountains… and shortly after, on the top of his dream of fulfilling Aegon the Conqueror's ever burning desire – to make Dorne a part of his kingdom. He could not fathom how it was possible for Aegon and his sisters to fail. They had had dragons! The ones Daeron remembered from his childhood were smaller than the ancient beasts, everyone said so, but they had been huge and so, so very impressive. Not frightening, no, not to him. But others had been terrified of them. They had been so unique. It was no wonder that his ancestors had won the Seven Kingdoms when they had had them. Aegon had wanted to make a new Valyria here – and he had almost succeeded.

Daeron's eyes sparkled.

He would take Aegon's dream and make it come true.

He would join Dorne to his realm, so no one could say that the dragons were scared by snakes.

He'd become known as Daeron the Unifier. His name would be written in golden letters next to Aegon's own name. That might even make his uncle stop looking at him as if Daeron was a stupid child who wanted the impossible!

Not very likely, but still.

His horse started shying away. Daeron patted him, trying to suppress his irritation. The magnificent white animal was not taking their climbing over the rocky terrain very well. In fact, their movements now were closer to scrambling. Daeron dismounted to relieve the horse and started leading him on. The armour of black and gold was impeding on his movements but he refused Maester Jarvas' suggestion to take it off.

"It doesn't matter that there is no enemy around," he said impatiently. "How are people supposed to make me out in the crowd if I look just like any other?"

The maester saw that there was no use to insist.

So, the line kept dragging on into the encroaching night. Men complained of their corns, blades became so sticky that they could not be unsheathed, Daeron was numb under the weight of his armour and sometimes he felt almost as if he had to push the horse forward… but at noon the next day, the moment came when above him, there was only sky. He looked around, looked at his men, at the mountain in his feet, and let out a cry of triumph, as if he were already holding the victory in his hands.


End file.
